


Unspoken

by Mad_Maudlin



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: First Time, Grief, Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-23
Updated: 2010-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-06 14:01:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Maudlin/pseuds/Mad_Maudlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The problem with living inside of a glass is getting someone to let you out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unspoken

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is for [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/fluffyllama/profile)[**fluffyllama**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/fluffyllama/) for the [Ron Ficathon 2005.](http://www.livejournal.com/users/snoopypez/210298.html) Her request was Ron/Charlie, smut, and secrecy; I think I've covered all the bases. Special thanks to [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/hermionemalfoy/profile)[**hermionemalfoy**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/hermionemalfoy/), [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/bksncleverness/profile)[**bksncleverness**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/bksncleverness/) and Toad the Wet Sprocket for getting this idea out, in various ways; Dain, you probably won't recognize anything. Also, sehr guten Danken to all my flisties, who's been cheering me on all day. Finals? What are these finals you speak of?

There's a secret in every family.

At the Burrow, it was Charlie and Bill.

Ron knew about them, sort of, even though it was never talked about, but because it was never talked about he was never quite sure. Bill and Charlie were best friends as well as brothers; as the two eldest, they did things together that the other kids weren't allowed. When Ron was very small, the room at the top of the house was forbidden territory, even moreso than his mum and dad's room, and when Bill and Charlie both moved out Ron had resisted taking their old room though it offered private space, a precious rarity. He couldn't say why, because it was part of the secret; he'd had to cover the walls with posters to make it feel like his own.

Bill and Charlie were close. They touched each other casually in ways that Ron hadn't ever seen two blokes touch, not even the twins, hands just sort of casually on hips, backs, arms. Bill and Charlie could finish each others' sentences and always knew the punchlines of the other's jokes. Bill and Charlie did things with each other they didn't do with anyone else, and there were timesat the beginnings of holidays, the first night of a mutual visitwhen little brothers Just Did Not Interrupt whatever Bill and Charlie were doing together alone. Whatever that was.

It wasn't serious. It wasn't important. It continually ranked on Ron's list of concerns just between spattergroit and the gross national product, except sometimes on holidays when he would look at his brothers and just _wonder, _with nothing to say. He didn't even know what to call it, because nobody ever said anything. It was just Bill and Charlie. It was just how things _were._

Till it wasn't.

-x-X-x-X-x-

Ron didn't think he should be old enough to hate funerals, but when he really dwelled on it, he'd been to enough. Black robes and false gravity and people gipping on about what a great person Bill was as if they'd actually known him and caredit all made Ron sick to his stomach. And his mum and dad sitting around and thanking the bloody hypocrites, shaking hands and earnestly accepting "our deepest condolences," that all was worse. Ron would've been glad to have never heard the word "condolences" again for as long as he lived.

But Charlie had to be the worst part of all. Ron wondered if he was the only one who noticed what was wrong with Charlie, or if the others knew and just weren't saying. Or maybe they couldn't say, because that would be admitting they knew, telling the secret. Or maybe it had all been in Ron's head from the beginning, he'd been reading too much into it for too long, and there had never been Charlie-and-Bill. With nobody talking about it, he couldn't be sure.

He was very sure about Charlie now, though. Charlie was taking it harder than anyone, even Mum; he looked wasted, shocked, and frail in a way that someone of his size and build shouldn't. He wasn't eating, Ron was sure, and he didn't seem to be sleeping too much. He hadn't spoken more than a handful of words in the days since he'd got back to England. Ron was grieving for his brother, but Charlie was acting like he'd lost something a whole lot bigger, a whole lot more. Charlie seemed just plain _lost, _and it made Ron's heart ache and his hands clench. He wanted Charlie to be the brother he'd grown up adoring; he wanted Bill back, the brother he'd idolized. He knew he couldn't get one without the other, though, and the other was out of his reach.

A commotion near the fireplace interrupted the flow of condolences, and Ron gave Ginny a squeeze on the hand before going to investigate. The Burrow was the most crowded he'd ever seen it, and he had to squeeze and jostle his way to the kitchen. He could hear what was happening long before he could see it.

"Charlie, just calm down for a moment."

"I'm fucking _calm._ I'm a fucking Zen master."

"I think you need to sit down."

"You don't know what I need!" Ron flinched at the raw edge in Charlie's slurred voice. "Self-satisfied sons of bitches, talking 'bout my brother when you don't even _know _him..."

Someone said indignantly, "I knew Bill quite well."

Ron slid through a gap in the shoulders and there was Charlie, disheveled and flushed, glaring at the funeral guests with dangerously wide pupils. Whoever the supreme idiot who had just spoken up was, Charlie rounded on him, practically snarling. "You don't know _shit!" _he roared. "You don't know a _fucking_ thing" He swung his fist out, staggered and fell to the scrubbed kitchen floor, swearing incoherently.

Ron darted forward and grabbed Charlie's shoulder about the same time their father made his way into the kitchen, defusing the tension. Charlie stank of liquor, and he seemed to be having trouble getting his feet under him. Ron leaned down over him as Dad started apologizing to the funeral guests. "Charlie," he said softly, but didn't know how to finish up because _calm down_ clearly wasn't going to work and _it's going to be okay_ was a lie.

Charlie looked up at him and squinted oddly. "Ron?"

"Yeah, Charlie." Ron tugged on his brother's upper arm; it was as thick as Ron's thigh and didn't seem inclined to move. "Let's go upstairs."

"Don't wanna" Charlie shrugged him off easily, but Ron was both persistant and sober; while Charlie totters on all fours, Ron got an arm around him and hauled him into an upright kneeling position. Charlie swayed, but let Ron get under his arm and support him.

"Let's go upstairs," Ron said again. "You can lay down up there for a while."

Charlie only nodded weakly this time.

"Going upstairs," Ron added after a moment, "requires you to stand."

Charlie's mood had shifted, and it took far too much coaxing to get him on his feet and up the stairs. Ron felt acutely embarassed on his brother's behalf, but also annoyed at the people watching their progress with criticizing eyes. They had no right to stare, no right to even be therelike Charlie had said, they'd hardly known Bill at all, and couldn't possibly be grieving, not like his family was. Not like Charlie.

"They were very close," he heard Dad say as they made their way from the room. "Charlie's taking it rather hard."

Mum had let Charlie bunk down in Percy's old room, but Ron only paused outside that door for a moment before heading for the next staircase. Charlie hadn't been sleeping there anyway (or at all) and it was too close to the ground floor, too great a chance some fool from the funeral would wander up and bother themRon told himself this firmly. Besides, it didn't really seem right, somehow, in a way he couldn't explain. Instead he dragged Charlie up and up, difficult as it was, to the room at the top of the house with Ron's name on the door, the room that Bill and Charlie used to share. He dumped Charlie on his bed, and wasn't terribly surprised when he fell straight into snoring sleep.

George poked his head in a few minutes later. "Is he okay?"

Ron shrugged. "He's asleep."

"What'd you drag him all the way up here for?"

Ron shrugged again, then said, "I'll wait up here a bit. Make sure he doesn't get sick or something."

"Gotcha." George looked at Charlie, and Ron thought he saw some kind of sympathy in his expressionsome kind of pity. Knowledge, maybe, that Charlie was mourning something more than a just brother or a friend.

Ron pulled up a chair and sat next to the bed while the afternoon hours slowly seeped away. The soft roar from the funeral dwindled to nothing, and his formal black robes got oppressive, so he began to quietly change into a jump and jeans. He'd just gotten his fly buttoned when Charlie suddenly stirred and reached out with one hand, mumbling into the pillow with the other.

Ron knelt next to the bed and caught his brother's wrist. "You all right, Charlie?" he asked softly.

Charlie raised his head and blinked at Ron blearily, once, twice, without focusing; a lopsided grin crossed his face and he sighed, breath redolent of whiskey. "Billy," he mumured, then grabbed Ron's shoulder and pressed their lips together.

So this was It. Charlie was mashing his mouth on Ron's, thick strong fingers clutching at Ron's hair, and Ron had absolutely no idea what to do because Charlie this was Charlie, a man, his _brother_who had just called him "Bill." Charlie's grip tightened, pulling Ron closer, and it was all too much for him to process at once. A foul-tasting tongue pushed into his mouth, and he flung himself backwards, thumping against a wall.

Charlie blinked at him again, focused, and the look on his face changed like an avalanche.

Ron blurted "I'm sorry," grabbed a shirt, and fled from the room.

-x-X-x-X-x-

Ron was in on the secret now, and he still couldn't say anything. He wondered if this was how Bill had feltlike he was living inside of a glass, and all the rest of the world was outside, untouchable and unable to touch him. He could talk to others, play chess with them, sit right next to them and feel a mile away because he _knew_and couldn't say a word, couldn't breach the silence. Charlie was inside the glass, but Charlie wouldn't talk to himafter the funeral, Charlie wouldn't talk to anyone. He shut himself up in Percy's old room and wouldn't come out to eat.

Mum and Dad tried talking to him, but Ron knew from the start they would fail. They were outside the glass. They were stuck on trying to console someone who'd just lost a brother and a friend. They couldn't solve the problem because they couldn't acknowledge it; they'd gone so long without saying anything it was too late to start. Ron watched them make the trek to the third-story room at every meal and come back with full trays and grim faces, but he couldn't tell them what they were doing wrong because he couldn't form the words.

Ron thought he might've been able to talk to Charlie himself, but he had no clue what to say. The whole situation, it wasnot wrong, he couldn't quite call it wrong, even though it was his _brothers_ and they were _together_. It was Bill, who had been Head Boy with twelve OWLs without becoming an uptight prick; it was Charlie, whose jokes were never quite as nasty as the twins' and who had never gloated though he could've played Quidditch for England. It was Bill and Charlie, the ones he'd looked up to and imitated for as long as he could remember. It was weird and uncomfortable and hard to explain, Ron thought, but if it was Bill and Charlie, it couldn't be _wrong_.

He tried talking to Ginny about it.

"D'you think..I mean...Charlie's really messed up."

"I know." She stirred her oatmeal and added more sugar. "I wish we could do something."

_You could admit it,_ Ron thought. _You could let him know you know._ "He and Bill were really close."

"Best friends," Ginny said. "Pass the sausage?"

Ron knew about best friends, and this wasn't it. "There's got to be some way...something has to help."

Ginny shrugged and chewed on a mouthful of eggs. "It's not like we can bring him back..."

Ron didn't hear the rest of the sentence, and he let his fork fall to the floor.

-x-X-x-X-x-

He crept down from his room in the middle of the night and eased the door open to Charlie's. It smelled insidemusty, like dirty laundry and sweat. Charlie didn't seem to notice him coming in or quietly shutting the door. "Charlie?"

The shape on the bed started, then peered up at him. "Who is it?"

"'S Ron."

Charlie lay back on the bed. "Oh."

Ron padded across the room to the bed and jammed his toe on one heavy boot. "Erd'you mind if I turn on a light?"

"Go ahead."

Ron flicked his wand at the bedside lamp, but sort of wished he hadn't; Charlie looked even more haggard and fragile than before, and his face was hollow underneath the stubble. Ron made it to his bedside and sat in the desk chair next to it, then changed his mind and sat on the edge of the mattress. He wondered if he was Gryffindor enough to do this.

He didn't realize how long he'd been lingering there until Charlie asked, not harshly, "What do you want?"

"I wantedI wanted to talk" Seventeen years of silence made mush of the words he'd wanted to say. Even now, he couldn't talk about it, not even to Charlie.

But Charlie seemed to understand anyway, at least a bit; he looked at the wall and sighed. "Ron, I'm sorry about that. I didn't meanI was plastered. It wasn't..."

"No." Ron surprised himself with his own resolution; he sounded confident, and that reassured him. "What I mean isI think I understand now. About you. And Bill."

Charlie's head drooped, and he made fists in the sheets. "Oh."

"And...and I guess want to say, I'm sorry. I mean, I know it doesn't mean much" he looked at his own fingers worrying his pyjama top, "but I'm sorry for you."

He looked up in the long pause, and Charlie was looking at him, and Ron wished he knew better how to read other people's expressions. "Thanks," Charlie said, oddly flat. He patted Ron's knee sort of vaguely.

Ron drew in a deep breath and kissed him.

Oh, this was bad, badworse than the drunking fumblings of the week before. Charlie hadn't been showering and he stank, and his stubble pricked and itched against Ron's face, and Ron didn't really know what he was doing. Charlie wasn't moving, and Ron thought that might be a bad sign, but then the next thing he knew he was landing rather hard on the floor.

"What," Charlie said, voice quivering badly, "was that?"

Ron dared to peek up at him and wished he hadn't; the look on Charlie's face was past enraged. "I'm sorry," Ron blurted. "I thoughtI thought it would help."

"You don't understand," Charlie said harshly, "you don't understand at all."

"I'm sorry."

"Get out."

Ron scrambled from the room, but spared one backwards glance. Charlie sat up in bed with his head in his hands, and his shoulders were trembling slightly.

-x-X-x-X-x-

Maybe it had helped, though; Charlie started bathing again, and eating, though he still wouldn't talk all that much. When Mum tried to ask gently when he was going back to Romania, Charlie wouldn't even acknowledge the question.

Ron avoided him, and spent a lot of time hiding, though not in his room. He cursed himself for being so thickhow could he have thought he could take Bill's place?and tried to compose apologies, but no words ever seemed right, no words every seemed enough. At night he remembered what Charlie felt like, touching him, and imagined what he and Bill had done in that little top room when Ron had been to young to notice. When he found out when he and Ginny would be going back to Hogwarts, he packed up his trunk and starting taking down the posters from the walls.

-x-X-x-X-x-

His last night at the Burrow before going back to school, Ron had trouble eating dinner, because Charlie snagged a seat directly across from him and stared. No one else at the table seemed to noticeor if they did, they weren't saying anything. Charlie watched him for the whole meal, eating slowly and rarely blinking. Ron choked on his food and wondered if he had enough blood in his body to blush and run his stomach at the same time.

"Dessert, dear?" Mum asked.

"I'm not hungry," Ron mumbled and excused himself from the table.

He heard the footsteps behind him on the stairs, but he didn't look back, not until he'd gotten up to his room. He didn't bother to shut the door, but tried to make himself look busy by going through the neatly-rolled pile of posters in the far corner. Some of them were worth money, if he kept them in good shape, and he could use all of that he could get....

"We need to talk," Charlie said from the doorway.

Ron cringed, and shrugged.

He heard Charlie shut the door, and marked every heavy footstep before Charlie knelt at his side. "I'm sorry. I overreacted."

Ron shook his head. "I'm a stupid git."

"You are not either." Charlie rested a hand on his back, just below his nape. "I appreciate what you were trying to do, even if...look, I don't think you understand nearly as much as you think."

Ron swallowed and said, as softly as he could, "You loved him."

Charlie nodded, slowly, as if he wasn't sure the words were true when they were actually said. "Yeah. It's not that simple, though."

"I thought...you..." Ron shook his head. "I thought I could help. I thought...maybe you needed...never mind."

He tried to stand up; Charlie put enough gentle pressure on his shoulders to keep him on the floor. "Needed what?"

"...a replacement."

"Oh, hell, Ron."

"Which is stupid," Ron said, "I know, because you don'tand I could neverI'm a bloody fool, all right, and I'm sorry."

He felt Charlie's thumb brush brush against the hair at the base of his neck, back and forth, gently. "Ron." Charlie shifted his weight, moving closer. "I'm sorry."

Ron shook his head. "No, you don't" But he didn't get any more out because Charlie kissed him. It was loads better this time, because Ron was sort of prepared and Charlie was clean and sober; it was soft and dry and over way too soon.

Charlie pulled away and shook his head, without moving his hand. "You look like him," Charlie said, whispered, almost. "More than anyone else in the family. But you don't understand, and II can't do this yet."

"What," Ron demaned, "can't you do? 'Cause I don't think you've tried anything except laying around feeling sorry for yourself and" Charlie flinched, and Ron slapped a hand over his mouth. Oh, _bollocks. _There he went again. Charlie's hand fell from his shoulders, but Ron grabbed it and held it with both of his. "I'm sorry," he said desperately. "I'm didn't meanCharlie, please"

"No," Charlie said hoarsely, "you're right, I just..."

They stared at each other, and couldn't say a word.

Ron squeezed Charlie's rough hands, hesitantly, and then leaned forward. Charlie pulled back. "No," Ron said softly, "justtry." He pressed their mouths together again, trying to do this right, trying to make up for all the stupid things he'd done already, trying to _help_. Charlie made a soft sound that might've been a protest, but then he gave in, and pulled Ron closer to him.

Ron let Charlie take overhe was the one who knew what they were doingand wrapped his arms around his brother, hoping desperately he wouldn't get pushed away again. This time when Charlie's tongue slid into his mouth, it tasted of roast chicken and elderflower wine, and Ron discovered that he could make Charlie groan by sucking on it gently. Charlie clutched at Ron's back, pulling him closer, one hand grabbing Ron's arse through his jeans and squeezing. Ron pawed at Charlie's neck, frustrated by hair too short to grab hold of, and settled for pulling Charlie as close as they could get.

He felt Charlie's erection through both their trousers, and realized he had no clue where this was going. Charlie must've noticed something, because he broke off the kiss without removing his hand from Ron's back pocket. "What do you want?" he asked gravely, with wide eyes.

Ron swallowed hard and braced himself. "Everything."

Charlie nodded, and Ron thought he saw the shadow of a smile. "Then we should move up to the bed."

Ron stumbled to his feet and crossed the room in two strides; Charlie turned him around at the last second so he fell on his back, one leg dangling off over the side. He scooted up as best he could, but then Charlie was on top of him, holding him in place, weighing him down. Ron gasped and groaned as he felt Charlie roll his hips, rubbing their cocks together though their clothes, wonderful. Charlie bent his head and nipped at Ron's mouth. "Ssssh. Got to be quiet."

"Right," Ron whispered loudly, and arched up into Charlie's mouth and body.

Charlie bent down and kissed Ron's neck, then bit, and Ron had to clench his teeth to muffle a noise. Of course that meant Charlie did it again, and again, until Ron either wanted to hit him or come right away. Charlie got one hand up under Ron's shirt, stroking his chest and stomach with callused fingers. Ron did his best to return the favor, fumbling with the edges of Charlie's shirt before finding soft skin inlayed with too-smooth patches, old burns. Then Charlie pulled back for a moment and pulled out his wand, and while Ron didn't notice the particulat spell he definitely noticed when all his clothesand Charlie'sjumped about a foot to the left and fell in a heap on the floor.

Charlie was amazingbroad and muscled and precariously close to tan. He made Ron self-conscious of his own skinny limbs, and the old scars that ran down his arms. But Charlie ran his hand from Ron's shoulder down to his thigh with an expression Ron would almost call posessive, and then he kissed Ron again, letting their bare chests rub together. An uneasy doubt flared once faintly in Ron's mind, that this was his brother, that this was _weird;_ but Charlie had done this before, with Bill, and if there was any one constant in Ron's universe it was that those two could never do wrong. He dropped his hand to Charlie's arse, pawing at the clenching muscles there, and had to choke back another cry when Charlie licked his broad hand and wrapped it around both their cocks.

Every detail felt amazing, from the calluses on Charlie's palm to the slide of Charlie's shorter, thicker penis against Ron's, and it was over embarassingly soon. Ron pressed his face into the crook of Charlie's neck and hissed an incoherent warning before coming. Charlie didn't break his rhythm in the slightest until Ron slumped back against the pillows, exhausted. "Sorry," he whispered, barely loud enough to hear himself.

Charlie shook his head and nuzzled the side of Ron's face. "You're seventeen. It happens." He groped over the side of the bed and came up with somethinga sock, it looked liketo wipe the semen off his hand and Ron's abdomen. Then he tried to sit up.

Ron grabbed his wrist. "Waityou haven't"

"I'm fine."

Ron tightened his grip and breathed deeply. "I said I wanted everything."

Charlie's eyes went wide, and he sat up on the end of the bed, watching Ron carefully. "Do you realize what you're asking?"

Ron nodded quickly. "This isn'tI mean, I'm not _that_ stupid. I've...I've done some things."

Charlie raised one eyebrow. "What things?"

"I'm seventeen, d'you think I live in a monestary or something?"

Thankfully Charlie didn't press him for a sexual resumé; instead he dropped a hand to Ron's lap and traced little circles on his inner thigh. "What is it you want, then?" he asked softly. Ron couldn't tell if the subtle quaver in the question is a note of hope or resignation.

He took a deep breath, steeled himself, and rolled over onto his stomach.

Behind him, Charlie shifted abruptly. "Jesus, Ron"

"Don't you want to?" Ron craned his neck around, hoping he hadn't crossed another line, hadn't fouled up again.

Charlie's expression shifted from startled to soft, and he stretched himself out over Ron, showing him the answer instead of saying. They kissed, and Charlie licked Ron's jaw before moving his mouth slowly down his neck and back.

Ron rearranged the pillows and laid his head down as the anticipation made him harden again. Charlie left off on the small of his back and wordlessly urged Ron's legs into position, folded up under him, spread. Ron felt Charlie's wet finger rub against his hole and shuddered, angling himself up for greater pressure. Then Charlie planted a dry kiss on each of Ron's buttocks, and thenRon had to press his face into the pillows to keep quiet. Charlie's tongue flicked and licked over his anus, teasing him open and making Ron gasp for breath.

Charlie conjured lubricant, a charm Ron hadn't yet managed to master, and Ron felt him spread it up where his tongue had just been. He braced himself when Charlie knelt in position, and when he pushed in

Awful. Amazing. Ron hissed between his teeth and spread his knees wider, trying to push back when Charlie stopped short. He felt Charlie nod against the back of his neck, and they moved together, hardly making a sound. Every movement pushed him higher and higher, longer and longer, and when his hand met Charlie's to wrap around his cock he was sure that for once, he had done something right.

-x-X-x-X-x-

Ron refuse to be shaken awake until Charlie punched him rather hard in the arm. "Go 'way," he murmured, and snuggled down closer to his brother's chest.

"Mum will be up soon to get you," Charlie said gravely.

Mum. Here. The idea didn't seem quite real. Ron levered himself up and winced at the unexpected soreness. "What time's it?"

"Sevenish."

Ron glared. "She won't be up here for _hours."_

"Better safe than sorry."

"Wanker."

"Hmmm." Charlie lay back and stretched. "Maybe when you're back for summer hols."

That brought Ron up short in the middle of finding a towel. He looked at Charlie, stretched out in the bed, the blankets only covering him below the waist. His eyes were closed and his face still looked pinched and pale. On impulse Ron leaned over and kissed him, until he opened his eyes. "All right?"

Charlie smiled weakly and ruffled Ron's hair. "I will be," he said, but something more seemed to be bothering him.

He was gone when Ron got out of the shower, and Mum came up while he was dressing. "Ohgood, Charlie said he woke you, I was afraid you might've fallen back asleep."

"'M fine," Ron said, popping his head through his vest.

"Well, come down when you're dressed, I've made breakfast."

And that was all. It was nearly surreal.

When Ron got downstairs, Charlie kicked out a chair to his left for him and passed him the toast. Their fingers brushed together when Ron served himself and he felt a trecherous blush building in his cheeks. His parents, though seemed more concerned with interrogating Ginny about her packing.

"You didn't forget the laundry I put outside your door last night?"

"No, Mum."

"And you've got all your homework together?"

_"Yes,_ Mum."

Ron shifted in his chair and his bumped against Charlie's. Charlie bumped backonly it wasn't a bump, it was a rub, and a slide, that almost make Ron choke on his breakfast. He glanced at Charlie, who wasn't looking at him, and then bump-slide-rubbed back, higher and harder, making Charlie's knuckles turn white.

"Ron!"

He jumped and his fork fell from his hands. Had they noticed?

"Are you all packed?"

"Yes, Mum," he said breathlessly, hoping she didn't notice his flush.

"Including all your laundry?"

"Yes..."

But the didn't notice, he realized, even when Charlie rubbed their knuckles together reaching for his coffee and made Ron jump. Either they didn't notice or they didn't acknowledge it. Like a blind spot, or a Masking Charm that just covered the two of them.

He met Charlie's eyes again and saw a different kind of sadness, and realized what he hadn't understood the night before. Living inside of a glassit went both ways. They wouldn't say anything because they would ignore everything. This was a barrier that came from the outside.

Charlie kissed him again before they got in the taxi to London, stroked his hair, and whispered a breathless "thank you" in his ear. Ron watched him standing in the yard with the chickens until the road bent and the house fell from sight.

"Knut for you thoughts," Ginny said quietly from the other side of Pig's cage.

Ron thought about Charlie and Bill and bubbles of glass. "How much d'you think Mum would flip if I got an earring?"

-x-X-x-X-x-

There's a secret in every family.

At the Burrow, it's Charlie and Ron.


End file.
